


These Endless Days

by tfm



Series: Creatures of the Night [3]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Robot, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfm/pseuds/tfm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The forces of darkness are creeping ever closer to war. Before the team can pick a side, they have to figure out who's actually fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emily turns in her sleep.

It’s been two months since the first nightmare. Two months since they’d returned from Argadnel. Two months since she’d turned away from the only good thing in her life.

Her hand rests on the empty spot on the other side of the bed. The fact that she feels so lonely is ridiculous, considering that he’s only spent the night a grand total of once, and even then, they’d been interrupted by the news of Reid’s disappearance.

She had turned away because she thought she was protecting him. Protecting him from what, she isn’t exactly sure. There are a lot of dangerous things in the world, and Derek Morgan could probably hold his own with some of them, at least. The rest, she doubts even she could fight off.

It’s not about physical strength, though – it’s about perceptions. If they _perceive _him to be a threat, he’ll get hurt, and they’ll only perceive him as a threat if he’s by her side. Who “they” are is another question altogether. Over the years, Emily has built up her share of enemies. Some die out, some move on. Some stick to her like a parasite. Some are a part of her very existence. Her nightmare.

It’s always the same dream.

The life she could have had, but the life she could _never _have had. The life she _did_ have, for just one fleeting moment.

_‘You know what you have to do,’_ _her mother’s voice says, or maybe it’s her voice. Her mind. This is what her mind wants of her._

_You can’t go home again._

_‘Just one thrust, and it’s all over. You’ll be free, Emily. All you have to do is…’_

_…come home._

_And that’s where the problem lies. That place isn’t home. It has never been home. It’s a place where a woman lives – a woman who she doesn’t particularly like very much that keeps trying to get in her way, and just so happens to share her blood._

_The stake burns her hand. She should have worn gloves. Tonight, she doesn’t hesitate. Tonight, the stake goes in cleanly, and her mother explodes in spray of hot, fiery ash. Some of it hits Emily’s skin, but she doesn’t feel it._

Always the same, but always a little different.

Emily wakes up in a cold sweat, the same as every night so far this week. She figures that she should have gotten over it by now, that she should be used to it, that she should just roll over and keep on sleeping.

Her eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath darkened. The vampire physiology should stop that, but it doesn’t, and as a result, she looks more like a zombie than anything else. While her work may have suffered a little, thanks to the chronic exhaustion, there’s no chance that anyone will actually mistake her for a zombie, if only because the creatures have less sentience than a teaspoon.

It’s a little past five a.m, which means that going back to sleep is pretty pointless anyway. She showers, and dresses, and stops by a blood bank on the way to work.

Just another day.

**…**

At the Behavioral Analysis Unit, things are tense.

They have been for a while now.

The scar on JJ’s chest twinges. Reid’s a little more forthcoming to her than he is to Morgan, or Hotch, or Rossi, but even then, there’s a coldness that hadn’t been there before everything changed. The team is fractured, in more ways than one.

She sits at her desk, revising the paperwork from their latest case. A shifter has a psychotic break, and mauls half a dozen people to death. The team doesn’t quite make it in time, and Rossi fires three silver bullets.

Just another day.

Hotch stands at her door, a concerned look on his face. ‘Are we still on for tonight?’ he asks, and JJ’s almost amused; he’s _nervous_. Sick leave and case work mean that it’s taken until now for them to plan their date.

‘Sure,’ she tells him, ‘Though it has to be a double, because you asked me out twice.’

He frowns. ‘I did?’

‘Sure – first after Strauss went down, and then again when we were in hospital.’ Not the same hospital, granted, but psychic powers are good for some things, after all.

His frown persists. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to be so… importunate.’

JJ shrugs. ‘I said yes both times, so it doesn’t really make a difference.’

‘Right…of course. What time’s your appointment with Doctor Schreiber?’

JJ winced. She’d almost forgotten about the appointment – more to the point, she’d been _trying_ to forget about it. Since Argadnel, her visions had been getting steadily worse, to the point where a day didn’t go by without one. She’d almost fainted in the shower this morning, only to witness a werewolf buying his morning coffee. Telepathy didn’t exactly distinguish between the important and the irrelevant.

‘Four,’ she told him. ‘I was planning on just going home afterwards.’

‘I’ll pick you up at seven, then?’

JJ nodded. ‘That sounds good.’

It’s something to look forward to.

**…**

The bullpen is already bustling when Morgan dumps his bag under the desk at 8am. The team usually works daytime hours, but the high proportion of vampires in this city mean that there are usually people around at all times of day.

Thanks to an early morning workout, he’s dripping with sweat, even after the rigorous scrub down. There’s just something in his physiology that makes him sweat a lot; the same part of his physiology that’s responsible for turning him into a wolf once a month. He doesn’t particularly like it, but there’s nothing he can really do about it, either.

Reid’s at his desk, pretending to be engrossed in a file. Morgan gets the hint, and decides not to push that matter. Today, Reid isn’t interested in talking.

Emily’s not at her desk, but her bag is, and there are papers spread across it, so he knows that she’s already here. He tries not to look too engrossed in the search as he scans the floor, with both his eyes and his nose. She’s in the kitchenette, pouring herself a coffee. Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish individual scents when there are so many people in the room, but he’s intimately acquainted with Emily’s – a guarantee that he’ll never forget it.

Even though the day has only just started, she looks exhausted, as though she’d been up all night tossing and turning.

Under the pretense of getting his own coffee, he wanders over there.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’

Since the break-up, she’s been both professional and cordial, not to mention a pretty good agent. Apparently you learn some things when you’ve been around for a few hundred years.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, eventually, as he stirs the milk into his coffee. ‘You look a little…withdrawn.’

‘I’m fine,’ she replies, a little too quickly for Morgan’s liking. ‘I just haven’t been sleeping well.’

‘Nightmares?’ he asks. ‘It’s not unusual – the casework is hard on everyone.’

She gives him a look. ‘Thank you for your concern, Derek, but I have been dealing with this kind of stuff for a long time. These cases are horrible, but they’re nothing new.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ he persists.

‘There’s an annoying werewolf that keeps asking me whether or not I’m okay,’ she says sharply, grabbing her coffee and turning back towards the bullpen.

_Okay, there is _definitely_ something going on there_, Morgan tells himself.

And he is determined to find out what.


	2. Chapter 2

‘It’s not uncommon for a psychic to feel overwhelmed by their powers.’

JJ sits in the padded chair across from Doctor Schreiber, the antique wooden desk between them. Schreiber is a psychic too – most psychiatrists have to be, these days – but it still feels as though he doesn’t know a damn thing about what she’s going through.

After all, most people are born with their powers.

They have thirty years to get used to the visions, the voices inside the head. It builds up gradually, over the course of the lifetime. For JJ, it had come without warning. A blast of psychic energy absorbed by her body, the voices she couldn’t control, the visions she couldn’t stop.

The suicide rate of psychics is higher than that of any other species, and that’s with mortality taken into account.

‘I just feel like I’m…’ she trails off, unsure of quite how to put it.

‘Going crazy?’ Schreiber asks, and JJ’s surprised – and just a little bit irritated – to see that he’s smiling. ‘It’s a popular misconception, not helped in the least by the fact that telepathy is precipitated by changes in dopamine and serotonin reuptake.’

JJ blinks. ‘I’m sorry?’

The BAU is very much a psychology-based field, but as the media liaison, JJ knows less about that than does Reid, or Hotch, or Rossi, even.

‘Increased dopamine is found in schizophrenic individuals. Some suggest that the neurobiological factors responsible for the onset of schizophrenia are also responsible for telepathy, which is why there are high levels of comorbidity.’

‘Oh,’ is all JJ can manage. She remembers Diana Reid, how broken her mind is. It’s not a place that she’s particularly interested in ending up.

‘However, in your case, the chances may be somewhat less – those with telepathy are more likely to have these abnormal neurotransmitter levels, but it’s something that they’re born with. Because your psychic powers were induced, your neurotransmitter activity has been relatively stable up until this point. Perhaps in the last few months, you’ve noticed your behavior changing?’

JJ frowns. It’s not something she’s really paid attention to.

‘Maybe?’ she says, eventually, an answer which Schreiber seems somewhat satisfied with.

‘I’m going to prescribe you a dosage of antipsychotics,’ he says, and JJ’s eyes widen, and she’s about to argue against that, but Schreiber hasn’t finished. ‘There’s no specific drug that blocks telepathy, but because of the comorbidity, the symptoms can be dulled somewhat by atypical antipsychotics.’

There’s a long pause.

‘You’re not going crazy, Jennifer.’ He has a serious look in his eyes. ‘I know dozens of psychics who take these drugs in controlled doses. _I_ take them. They will help you regain normal functioning in your everyday life. The psychic powers won’t be completely suppressed, but chances are it will slow down, or even stop the visions entirely.’

JJ gives a grimace. _This is good,_ she reminds herself. _This is what you wanted._ But it still somehow feels like she’s giving in.

He fills out and signs the prescription, passing it over. JJ stares at it.

Going crazy is the last thing she needs.

**…**

Morgan’s staring.

There’s no doubt in Emily’s mind; he knows something is up. That doesn’t really matter though, because he’s not going to be able to stop her.

It’s five o’clock now, which means that Emily can go home without raising too much suspicion. Reid and Morgan and Rossi are all still here. So is Hotch, but he’s getting ready to pack up for his big date with JJ that nobody is supposed to know about. They all do, of course, because there are apparently a fair few psychics on this floor, but even without that, she would have guess that there’d been something going on from their body language.

Happiness is a nice concept, but not everyone’s lucky enough to find it. Emily had learned a long time ago that she’s just not one of those people. Even without what’s going on in her life, a relationship with Morgan would never have lasted. Sure, the sex is – had been – great, and it’s comforting to have a nice, warm body pressed up against you, but sooner or later, things would have taken a turn for the worse.

Here, in this city, there’s a vampire majority, but it’s the kind of relationship that would be frowned on the whole world over. It just doesn’t work like that. There’s a natural rift, a great chasm between the two species. Their fundamental characteristics make them the most natural of enemies. It’s a cliché, but there’s a reason that clichés exist.

She packs her bag, vaguely wondering if it’s going to be the last time she ever leaves the BAU. It’s a painful thought. Compared to some of the other things she’s done, it had been a fairly pleasant two and a half months. She’d stay, if she could, but she can’t.

There’s work to do.

She drives home, making sure that Morgan doesn’t suddenly get the urge to do something stupid, like come to her apartment. She wouldn’t put it past him.

There’s a bag, lying half packed on the floor of her closet. It’s been there for two months. Today’s the day. Today’s the day she knows she can’t put off any longer.

She showers, washing the day – and more importantly, the people that she’s been near today – from her body. The shower gel she uses is supposed to strip her body of all the smells that it’s accumulated – it’s easier on people with sensitive olfactory glands, like vampires or wolves. She doesn’t think it’s going to make much of a difference tonight, though.

The dress is a black halterneck, elegant but not extravagant. She doesn’t want to go in jeans and a t-shirt, but she doesn’t want to overcompensate, either. That’s the kind of behavior that gets you tossed in a dungeon and tortured to death. The heels are black too, as are the fishnets. Her lipstick is the color of blood – that’s a color you don’t get wrong when you’ve been drinking blood for seven hundred years. She licks her lips, and the color stays.

Traffic’s fairly heavy, because it’s peak hour, but it’s not a particularly long trip. After a while, the buildings drop away, and there’s nothing but the darkened green of night on either side of the road.

There’s a gate at the front of the house, and she presses the button for the buzzer.

‘_Name?_’

‘Emily Prentiss,’ she says, and there’s a long silence on the other end.

The gate opens.

She parks in the closest empty spot, and pulls her bag from the trunk. Her entire cache of weaponry is in there too, but that’s not something she needs. Yet.

The door opens before she gets there, and Emily stands rooted to the spot. It doesn’t matter how old you get, there’s always one person that can make you feel as though you’re half an inch tall.

This person commands power like most people command their toaster. Simply, effortlessly.

‘Hello, Emily,’ the vampire says.

Emily grimaces.

‘Hello mother.’


	3. Chapter 3

Outside, the sun has gone down.

Some other agents – the ones who are still here – have turned on their desk lights. The overheads are dim, but they're enough for the vampires to see as clear as day.

Spencer Reid sits in the dark.

His pen is in his hand, resting atop the sheet of paper. It's taken him this long to build up the courage to even get this far.

_Dear Diana_, the first words read. That's all he's written. Is it too direct? Not direct enough?

_You need a mother, she needs a son_, he reminds himself. He scrunches that piece of paper up into a ball, and tries again.

_Dear Mother._

The words seem so formal, and yet he can't bring himself to write something familiar like "Hey Mom" because no matter how much he wants to fake it, they don't have that kind of relationship yet.

Hearing footsteps, he quickly turns the page over, and straightens.

It's JJ. There's a strange, almost faraway look in her eyes, and it's as though she hasn't noticed him yet. He flips the desk light on, causing the Media Liaison to start.

'Hey Spence,' she says,

'Is everything okay?' he asks, concerned. While he still harbors some resentment towards the rest of the team, JJ _had_ taken a bullet for him. That counts for something.

'Yeah, I…um…I just came back to get some files. Long night, tonight.'

She's referring to the date with Hotch that nobody's supposed to know about, but there's something else there as well.

'I had an appointment with Doctor Schreiber,' she adds. 'He put me on antipsychotics.' She sits precariously on the edge of her desk. 'Do you think I'm crazy, Spence?'

He's not quite sure how to answer that one at first.

There are a lot of ways he could answer; facts and statistics and all kinds of empirical evidence. Those aren't the answers that JJ wants to hear, though.

'Compared to the rest of us, I think you're pretty sane,' he says, finally.

She gives a laugh – there's humor in it, but at the same time, it still feels kind of hollow. 'I don't really think that makes me feel much better.'

'At least you're in good company.'

Neither of them says anything to that.

'I was about to leave,' JJ says, after a few moments of silence. 'Could I give you a ride?' Reid has a car, but he doesn't often bring it. The train is cheaper and easier, and he can read through half a dozen journal articles on the forty-five minute trip.

'No, thanks…' Reid stares down at the sheet of paper. He has to finish this now, or he'll never finish it. It's a Friday night, so he technically has all weekend, but he'd like to visit Austin's grave, and there are a few other things that he wants to get done as well. Just because you have an identity crisis, doesn't mean everything stops. That's probably why JJ's here, looking for someone to talk to.

Maybe he should take that ride.

…

Morgan had left the BAU at around 5.30, unable to contain the adrenaline that had been building up inside him. It's almost as though his body is reacting before his mind has even caught up, because he's not quite sure what's going on yet. There are some people who say that werewolves can sniff out trouble before it even starts, but that's more instinct than pre-cognition. That kind of stuff, Morgan's quite happy to leave to the psychics.

Still, he's restless for one reason or another, and considering the day's events, he's pretty sure as to what that reason might be. A reason starting with E and ending in Y with three letters in between. A reason with fangs, and a dry wit, and quite frankly, a pretty nice set of legs. A reason that he really, really shouldn't be so hung up over, considering the fact that she's a vampire, but he is.

And damned if that doesn't terrify him.

It's almost seven, and he's still pacing his apartment, as though waiting for some kind of solution to fall out of the sky. He's not that kind of guy, though. He's the kind of guy that goes out and does something about it.

_So what are you waiting for, Derek?_

It's thirty seconds before he's out the door.

It's only half a dozen blocks to her apartment building, so he walks, the cool night breeze stinging against his skin. It'll be winter soon, which will be a complete pain in the ass at the full moon. Snow's bad enough to deal with when you're fully dressed, but when you've got paws, it's cold, and it's wet, and not even fur is enough to stop you from feeling it right down to the bone.

Back home, back in Babylon, it's even colder. Any visits to his mother and sisters he tries to schedule around the full moon, because otherwise, the paperwork is a bitch. Because of all the traveling the team does, though, Morgan is used to it. He doesn't often use the "sorry, it's that time of the month" excuse to get out of work. Sometimes, though, the aggression is so bad that Hotch just sends him home.

He's not really sure what he expects when he knocks on the door. Maybe that she'll answer and invite him inside, and tell him that she'd made a huge mistake. Maybe that she'll answer the door, and tell him straight away to just fuck off. Though it's not really surprising, all things considered, he'd never really expected that there would be no answer at all.

But there's not.

He knocks, and he knocks, but no-one answers that door.

It's been almost five minutes, when the door to the apartment opposite opens. The woman is fairly old – maybe eighty or ninety – and she's a witch, if Morgan isn't mistaken. 'You looking for the vampire?' she asks, and briefly, Morgan wonders just who else he's supposed to be looking for.

'Yeah.'

'She went out, 'bout a half hour ago. Had a big duffle with her. Looked like she was hitting the town, though.'

'Hitting the town?' he repeated.

'Dressed up real nice – hair done up, heels, make-up. Real pretty girl, that one.'

'Yeah.' Morgan finds himself agreeing vehemently. 'Listen, you don't happen to know where she was going, do you?'

'Sorry,' the woman says. 'She didn't say anything. But she didn't look particularly happy about things, either.'

Morgan nods. He pulls out his wallet, and hands the woman one of his cards. 'If you hear anything, could you please call me?'

She stares at the card, somewhat confused. 'You think something bad's going to happen?'

Morgan gives a pained smile. 'I sure as hell hope not.'


	4. Chapter 4

Emily can feel all eyes on her as she steps inside.

Some of these people she knows. Some of them, she’s been trying to avoid for centuries. Some she’s fought. Some, she’s never seen before in her life. All of them are giving her the same look. The look that says “you don’t belong here.”

And they’re right.

They’re not the ones she cares about, though. Right now, there’s only one person whose opinion she remotely values, and that is the opinion of Elizabeth Prentiss.

It’s not because there’s any modicum of respect between them. The simple fact is, if Elizabeth Prentiss decides that Emily doesn’t belong here, then she’s as good as dust. They’ll tie her to a stake, and leave her out in the middle of a field, until she’s all burnt up. It’s a slow, agonizing death. All things considered, Emily would prefer a stake to the heart, or an axe to the neck.

‘What are _you _doing here?’ a man in a dark tuxedo asks – his hair is a sandy blonde, his skin as pale as the rest of them. Emily doesn’t remember his name, but she remembers the sword fight on a dark and stormy night in pre-Revolutionary France. He fights well.

_Charles? William?_ It shouldn’t be this hard to remember a name.

‘All of you, leave,’ Elizabeth says, and the man stares at her.

‘She is an abomination,’ he says, and Emily feels like she could roll her eyes, it’s just that cliché. These days, _everyone_ is an abomination. With so much crossing of bloodlines, it has to be either that, or inbred.

Still, Emily’s only partially surprised when the man starts to burn under her mother’s gaze. _Literally_ burn. Tendrils of smoke curl from his body, and his mouth twists in a scream as his skin turns to charcoal. There is a very good reason why you don’t argue with the Fallen.

‘If there’s anyone else that would like to argue…’ Elizabeth starts, and wisely, none do. They leave the room as directed, and Emily follows her mother to the sofas by the fireplace. On the table, there’s a crystal decanter and two empty wine glasses. While the liquid in the decanter is that deep, rich red of wine, Emily would be a fool to mistake it as such. She eyes the glasses, wondering if she’d been expected.

‘Goat’s blood,’ Elizabeth says, to which Emily raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re practically killing yourself by drinking rat.’

The question hangs in the air, unasked and unanswered. Finally, Elizabeth says, ‘I had the feeling I’d be seeing you soon.’

A forgotten memory tries to edge its way into Emily’s psyche, but it can’t quite make it there. It pushes, and it pushes, but there’s some kind of barrier keeping it out. That memory will explain some things. Not everything, but some things.

Like why she’s here, for example. If she knew the answer to that question, then she might be a _lot_ more comfortable in the den of the dragon.

Elizabeth pours out the blood, the thick, dark liquid overwhelming Emily’s senses. It’s a lot more potent than rat’s blood, and she’ll be a little more liable to lose control, but considering where she is, that’s a possibility anyway.

‘I would have thought…I would have thought that you’d never want to see me again after what’s happened over the years.’

Emily’s surprised. Apparently thousand-year-old all-powerful vampires are allowed to be doubtful too. She feels no sympathy.

‘Well, after the first dozen or so times you tried to kill me, I figured that you’d probably give up.’ It’s very, very hard not to let the sarcasm drip from her words, but the intent is not lost.

‘I was never trying to kill you, Emily. I was trying to bring you home.’

‘Forgive me if I find that just a little hard to believe.’ Emily pauses. ‘I’m here because I need to be.’ She’s not really sure what that means, but apparently Elizabeth isn’t in a questions asking mood. Definitely strange.

Apparently Emily isn’t the only one with an agenda.

The tense silence is cut off by a harsh ringing sound, at which point Emily realizes that her phone is still on. She’d actually intended on leaving her cell at home, but she’d been in such a daze when she’d left, that she’d forgotten.

“Derek Morgan” is the name that flashes on the screen, and she feels a pang in her heart.

‘Do you love him?’ her mother asks, and she starts.

‘What?’

‘It’s a simple question, Emily. Do you love him?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t…I can’t answer that question.’ She presses the “Ignore Call” button, and turns the phone off. Garcia could probably still trace the GPS signal, but that’s not really important; Emily isn’t hiding. The team is too good at what they do for her to even hope that such a venture would be successful. All she has to hope is that they’re not stupid enough to try and follow her. They might describe themselves as a “family” but Emily hasn’t been there long enough to really consider herself part of that family. Maybe in ten years. Maybe never again.

After all, she’s _here_ now. Even if she doesn’t know why.

Elizabeth smiles, and it’s a scary thing, teeth glinting, fangs extending just to the edge of her lip. ‘Welcome home, Emily. There’s so much to catch up on.’

 


	5. Chapter 5

It’s awkward.

It shouldn’t be, but it is.

JJ pushes her potato around with a fork, giving Hotch a strained smile. They’ve had dinner together successfully before – late nights on cases with cardboard cartons of Chinese food, or half a dozen pizzas, or, if they feel like something different, something from that Old Norse joint down the street. Lots of meat, grain and beer, and sometimes, Viking battle cries.

This restaurant isn’t any of those things. It’s has a mixed patronage – vampires and werewolves and fairies, and all other manner of creatures. Some people like to hang around with their own kind, which is what the single patronage places are for. JJ doesn’t usually go to those places. There’s psychic shielding in this particular place, though, which is useful, even if it does stop her from knowing exactly what Aaron Hotchner is thinking right now.

It would be so much easier.

Things had started off well – he’d picked her up, wearing a suit that didn’t look all that different from the ones that he wore to work every single day. Maybe it was a little more formal, and maybe the tie was tied just a little bit looser, and maybe the single red rose he gave her, with an almost nervous smile on his face, was entirely out of place at any Federal Bureau of Investigation office.

To see such a stoic man so unsure of himself is disconcerting, if a little endearing. He’s a hardass sometimes, but he is undoubtedly, irrevocably, human. One in a million. _Two point eight in a hundred,_ Spence would probably correct her, which is technically true, but being human doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re a good person, just in the same way that being a vampire or a werewolf or a sorcerer means that you’re a bad person.

Species notwithstanding, though, there’s still something missing. Something wrong. There’s a joke in there somewhere – What do you get when you mix two workaholics? A conversation that doesn’t go beyond arsonists and serial killers. The punchline isn’t very funny, and nobody is laughing.

She’s pretty sure that he knows a fair bit about her from her file, and she’s found out far more than she’d care to from accidentally reading his thoughts when one of them is lapsing. His own past isn’t a particularly pretty thing, and she tries to block it out of her mind when she looks into his deep, dark eyes.

There are a lot of reasons why coworkers shouldn’t date.

Remaining objective can be a problem – especially for Hotch, who isn’t supposed to pick favorites – and aside from that, it can be really hard to get to know someone properly when you’ve seen them at their worst. When you’ve seen them bleeding from the jugular, gasping for breath, trying so desperately to stay conscious. There’s fear in his eyes, but it’s not fear of death. It’s something much worse than that. When you’ve seen him thrust a silver blade into a werewolf’s heart, deep crimson soaking his once immaculate cuffs. He hadn’t lost control, but it was a near thing.

But maybe…maybe that’s one of the reasons why dating a coworker isn’t so bad. Because when you’ve seen them at their worst, leaving the toilet seat up once or twice. And all other things aside, they _understand_. They understand why you’re coming home at two a.m, and all you want to do is pour a finger of scotch and stare into nothingness. They understand why you get angry when they don’t answer the phone, and you’re worried sick.

She sucks in a breath, and she tries to make this work.

‘So,’ she asks, with a smile on her face that isn’t entirely fake. ‘What do you do for fun, Aaron Hotchner?’

He stares at her for a moment, as if wondering whether or not it’s a trick question. ‘I, uh…I like to cycle, I read…’ There’s a long pause, and he seems almost embarrassed as he adds, ‘I’m not entirely opposed to jazz clubs.’

‘Do you dance?’ she asks, hint of mischievousness in her voice.

There’s a glint in Hotch’s right eye. ‘I dance.’ There’s a long pause. ‘I’m about as graceful as a land kraken, but I dance.’

He’s being modest. She’s seen the way he moves – in some ways, a raid is like a dance. A series of choreographed moves, clear one room and the next, _on your knees, this is the FBI._

It’s a different kind of grace.

She pushes him away from the work related topics, but not all the way away, because he tells her about his college days, and his past life as a prosecutor. It’s nice. It’s…normal. Normal isn’t exactly a word that’s thrown around easily, but it’s as close to it as JJ is going to get.

He drives her home, and walks her to her door. There’s a tense moment, where JJ isn’t sure what’s going to happen, when by all rights, she should be able to read his thoughts.

He leans in, his lips parted. Unconsciously, JJ brings herself closer towards him.

In her purse, her cell phone rings.

They both have the sudden, urgent, “can you ignore it?” feeling surging through them. Hotch’s is so strong that JJ feels ripple over her own. She wonders if this is something he feels every time he walks out the door. The job always comes first.

‘It’s a case,’ she tells him, without even getting the phone out. Being psychic has its benefits, after all. Really, it would be much, much better if she could deduce the identity of an unsub just by looking at the case file, but magic isn’t that powerful.

Just another day hunting down serial killers.

She fishes her phone out of her purse, and answers it with a – much harsher than usual, ‘Jareau.’

Romance will have to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Morgan’s on his way back home when he gets the phone call. He breathes a sigh of relief. His mind had been racing with questions about where Emily might be, what she’s doing, why she’s doing it. When they both show up in that briefing room, though, he’ll be able to give her a significant look with significantly worried eyebrows and say, “Is something wrong?” It’s a simple enough plan, but he didn’t really consider the possibility that she might not be there – the possibility that Garcia will have called her, and called her, and that she’s not answering.

But she’s not, and Morgan is left wondering why the hell Emily Prentiss had left her apartment in formal wear with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. There’s an answer to that one, but it’s not an answer that he wants to accept. There is no way she’d just leave without saying anything. Not after what had happened; not just between them, but everything with the team as well.

He grabs a cup of coffee on the way in, the caffeine doing absolutely nothing to quell his feelings of uneasiness.

‘Let’s get started,’ JJ announces, as she, Hotch and Garcia enter. JJ and Hotch are still wearing their “date” clothes, from the date that they never had. Garcia dives low to land on Morgan’s shoulder.

‘Where’s Emily?’ Reid asks, with a frown. The younger agent had come to the conference room straight from the bullpen, and Morgan doubt that he’d even been home.

‘No idea,’ Morgan shrugs, only he does have an idea, and it’s a very, very bad one. His shrug displaces Garcia slightly, so she slides off and lands on the table next to him.

‘She isn’t answering her phone,’ JJ says. ‘It doesn’t seem like her to ignore a call – especially a case call.’

‘I, uh…I went over to her place earlier,’ Morgan reveals, and five faces turn his way. ‘Her neighbor said she went out – she was dressed formally, but she had a bag packed.’

The implications of the words are not lost on anyone.

‘You don’t think she…’ Garcia starts. ‘I mean, there’s no way she would have gone back to that…woman.’

‘There’s obviously something going on that we don’t know about,’ JJ argues.

‘Whatever it is, we can’t be distracted by it.’ Hotch’s expression is one of dedicated seriousness. Morgan feels anger starting to surge.

‘Seriously, Hotch? She could be in trouble, and you just want to leave her there? That is fucked up.’

‘If she made the choice to go back, then there’s nothing we can do to change her mind.’

‘You know better than anyone that that bitch messes with people’s minds, Hotch. We have no way of knowing how or why she ended up there, or even if that’s where she went.’

‘Morgan.’ Hotch’s voice is deep, dark, and for a human, he can be pretty damn scary when he wants to, but Derek Morgan is not easily intimidated. ‘We have four bodies in two days, and it’s escalating faster by the minute. I want to help Emily, I do, but you have to trust that she knows what she’s doing.’ Morgan wonders how much of this is pragmatism talking, and how much is Hotch’s desire not to get involved with the Prentiss clan. Admittedly, it’s a desire that Morgan shares, but he’ll do what he has to do.

Part of him wants to bring up Reid’s abduction from just two months previously, but it’s a low blow, and the circumstances are completely different – he hopes. In addition to that, he’s pretty sure that Reid would never speak to him again.

He shook his head, standing. ‘We’re a team, Hotch. What happened to that?’ Hotch didn’t answer, and Morgan found himself walking out of the room.

He’ll find out what’s going on, even if it kills him.

**…**

There’s a long, awkward silence. ‘If anyone else wants to join Morgan, now’s your chance,’ Hotch says. Nobody moves; not even an inch.

‘Feels like we’re going around in circles sometimes,’ Rossi mutters.

‘Wait until you see the files,’ Garcia says, taking a long drink from the coffee mug that Morgan had left behind. It falls back to the table with a thud, dark liquid spilling over the sides. ‘Oops.’

‘What do you mean?’ Reid asks, frowning.

‘I had Garcia set up a system that cross referenced any death in any part of the country with what we have on Anath’s Circle,’ Hotch tells them.

‘You think whatever happened there is related to something bigger?’ Rossi asks.

‘We captured a rogue cell, but there was no-one matching the description of the man who captured you. We have to assume that whatever endgame they’re working towards, it’s still going.’

‘So what do we have, then?’

‘More dead sorcerers,’ JJ announces, taking control of the briefing. ‘Not members of terrorist organizations this time, but that’s not to say that they aren’t connected to them in some way.’

‘How do we know this is relevant then?’ Reid asks. ‘It could just be a regular unsub.’

‘It’s not,’ Rossi says, scanning over the files. ‘Whoever killed these people had some serious magic behind them. These aren’t spells they teach you in school, or at community college. Organized, dark magic means a group like Anath’s Circle.’

‘We can’t exactly just get a warrant and take them down, though,’ JJ says with a frown. ‘They are way bigger than any of us can imagine.’

Rossi looks at her, curious. ‘How do you know?’ he asks.

‘What?’

‘You said that they are way bigger than any of us can imagine – how do you know that?’

JJ falters.

How _did_ she know that?

She hasn’t even filled her prescription yet, but she hasn’t had a vision all night. The words had just spilled out of her mouth, as though they’re a secret she didn’t even realize that she knew.

‘I don’t know,’ she answers honestly. ‘But I think we need to start preparing for the worst.’ There was a long pause. ‘I think there’s a war coming.’


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Morgan’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly. He wants to be wrong. He really, really wants to be wrong. If he’s wrong, though, then he has absolutely no idea where Emily is. Maybe that’s better than the thought that’s running through his mind.

The thought that maybe…just maybe…she decided to return to the house of her mother. It seems ridiculous. More than that; it seems downright _insane_, but there are no other ideas that even begin to sound as possible as that one.

_But then_, he reminds himself, _it’s not as though you actually know her that well at all. There are hundreds of places that she might be that you know absolutely nothing about._

As he drives through the city, the buildings start to thin out. The last time he – and the rest of the team – had visited the Prentiss clan, they’d almost died.

Really, it’s not a unique situation for them – near-death experiences come at least half a dozen times per year for FBI agents. If it’s not vampires, or sorcerers, or desperate humans trying to create robotic imitations of their lost love ones, it’s fairy assassins, which is a much scarier concept than most people would think. Fairies are small, and quiet, and can absolutely inject potassium chloride into your neck in the middle of the night without leaving a trace of physical evidence.

He pulls up to the gate, hesitating. _This is a bad idea_, his brain says, but then he sees Emily’s car parked inside the gate, and logic takes a backseat. With a deep breath, he opens the driver’s side window, and presses the intercom button.

‘_Name?_’

_What the hell, _he thinks. _They’ll probably smell you anyway._

‘Derek Morgan,’ he says, a little hesitant. ‘I need…I want to see Emily.’

‘_You want to see Emily?_’ the voice asks, and the tone of incredulity does not go unnoticed. _Last chance to back out, Derek._

‘I want to see Emily,’ he confirms. He’s almost surprised when the gate opens. He’d half been expecting to be murdered on the spot, or at the very least, turned away. This whole situation feels like the worst kind of weird possible. Just as a precaution, he decides to send a message to Garcia: @_ Prentiss clan – Em’s car is here. If I don’t come back, you know what happened._ He turns the phone off before he can receive the inevitable phone call asking him whether he’s gone completely insane.

He’s greeted at the door by Elizabeth Prentiss, and part of him wants nothing more than to empty his entire clip in her chest. Unfortunately, though, that’s the kind of behavior that would get him torn apart by the nest of live, angry vamps. It’s bad enough that he can’t shift or heal properly in the place.

‘Where is she?’ he demands.

‘Mr. Morgan. What a pleasure to see you again.’ There’s nothing in the woman’s voice that suggests the nature of their last encounter. Apparently, an unassuming tone is something that she’s been working on for a long time.

‘Cut the crap,’ he sneers. ‘Where is she? If you’ve hurt her, I swear to God…’

‘You would be dead before you could lift a finger,’ Elizabeth says, the change in her voice making Morgan’s blood run cold. He has no trouble believing that this woman could kill him without even touching him. Maybe that should have scared him.

The vampire matriarch steps backwards to let him inside. He gives her a look. ‘You think I’m going to fall for that?’

‘Emily is upstairs – here of her own free will. I did not coerce her, or bring her here under duress.’

‘You expect me to believe that? Two months ago, you were willing to kill us all, just to get her back.’

‘Wesley,’ Elizabeth says sharply, not letting Morgan’s eyes leave hers. ‘Please inform Emily that she has a visitor who will be joining her in her quarters momentarily.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘How do I know this isn’t a trap? How do I know you haven’t brainwashed her?’

‘You have my word that you will come to no harm under this roof. For now.’ The words sound almost sincere, but he’s willing to bet that sincerity is another faux expression that Elizabeth Prentiss has been working on for a long time. ‘With all due respect, Agent Morgan – and make no mistake, there is little due – I don’t particularly care what happens to you one way or another. But Emily does.’

She gestures towards the extravagant staircase. ‘Go upstairs. Make your peace with her, and then leave. I can only hold my people at bay for so long.’

**…**

Wesley’s declaration is annoyingly vague. “You have a visitor” could mean a lot of things, in a place like this. It could mean that someone’s coming to shove a stake through her heart. It could mean that her mother is coming to have a little chat. But it doesn’t. The moment he shuts the door, the smell – his wonderful, glorious, maddening smell – permeates her nostrils.

The knock comes moments later.

‘Go home, Derek,’ she says. ‘It’s not safe for you here.’

‘Please…I just want to talk.’

Emily hesitates. Opening the door and letting him in is perhaps the worst idea in the world, but she does it anyway. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, and the relieved look on his face when he sees that she’s unharmed almost breaks her heart in two.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she murmurs, but she doesn’t fight back when he steps past her, and shuts the door.

‘Emily, what the hell are you doing?’ The words should be angry, but they’re not. He lets his hand brush her cheek, and her whole body shivers.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispers. ‘I just…I need to be here.’

‘She’s _forcing_ you to stay here?’ he asks, the fires of fury lighting in his eyes.

‘No!’ she says, quickly, and then, a lot softer, ‘No…I…I can’t explain it, Derek. But I _need_ to be here. Not for her sake. For mine.’

‘What are you going to do, Emily? Play house with mommy? Go with her on one of her weekly killing sprees?’ That is the voice of the man who has grown to despise her kind. She can’t blame him, and yet she can’t shake the agonizing hurt she feels from hearing those words. As though he thinks that she’s as bad as her mother.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘I just need to know.’

She leans in and kisses him. It’s slow, soft. Gentle. Their foreheads rest together, and she whispers, ‘I’m here because I need to kill her.’ If he’s surprised at the words, she catches it with another kiss, one arm wrapping around his neck, the other moving to undo his shirt.

‘Emily,’ he breathes. She puts a finger to his lips.

‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Don’t say no.’ There are so many more things she needs to tell him, but the words don’t come. She kisses him again, harder, and the fact that this house is where they’d shared their first moment does not go unnoticed. Maybe it’s not the romantic occasion, but chances are, it’s the last time they’ll ever be together.

She’s not sure why that upsets her so much.

After all, when you get to seven hundred, a two month relationship isn’t exactly commitment.

He’d shown up, though, which is more than a lot of people would have done.

She strips his shirt off, and lets her hands press against his chest. His heart beats erratically under her fingertips, and even without that tactile evidence, she can hear it pounding in her ears, so fast.

He takes her against the wall, rough, but intimate at the same time. Her dress is pooled at the floor around her feet, and she does not want him to leave. But he has to.

‘I can help you,’ he protests.

Emily shakes her head. ‘No. Not here. Not now. They’ll kill you without a second thought. You know what you have to do, Morgan.’

 He gives her one last look, before walking out.

Emily waits until the smell has left the air before letting the first tear fall.


	8. Chapter 8

The drive back to the BAU is silent, but Morgan’s too busy thinking to care. He’s not entirely sure what had just happened – if he wants to be cynical about it, then it’s a _really_ fucked up booty call, but at the same time, he knows that it’s a lot more serious. His knuckles feel like they’re permanently clenched – he wants nothing more than to tear his way out of his own body, and charge into that house and rip their throats out.

Even as a wolf, he’d be dead in seconds. One on one, all other things equal, a vampire versus werewolf fight is fairly evenly matched. Each species has different skills, different advantages, that come in useful. One werewolf versus an entire house of vampires – not to mention one of the Fallen...he’d be dead in seconds. It wouldn’t even take a silver bullet.

There has to be another way.

Technically speaking, she wasn’t being held against her will – there was no legal avenue that he could think of for knocking down their front door.

He has to trust that Emily knows what she’s doing.

It’s a tough question. After all, it’s only been a couple of months. He lusts after her, certainly, but _trust_? That’s something that takes so much longer to build up. Even after all that they’ve been through.

She doesn’t trust him – that much, he knows. After all, if she’d trusted him, she would have told him why she’d really come back. He’s smart enough to know that she’d been hiding something, but he’s just not sure what.

Really, though, he’s very much aware of the fact that Emily Prentiss is the kind of person who would try and kill her mother without coming to any of them for help. As terrible as it sounds, that’s the kind of mistrust he can deal with. At least that means that she hasn’t betrayed them. But it also means that she’ll probably get herself killed if he doesn’t do anything about it.

He’s torn between following his instinct, and following his heart. The thing about being a werewolf is that instinct can be overpowering, all-consuming. Every single instinct is telling him to turn the car around.

His heart pumps ferociously, and his fingers grip the steering wheel even tighter, and he can feel the wolf inside of him trying to push its way out. It doesn’t care what the practical option is. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t think about whether or not it will win or lose.

All the wolf wants is to fight.

He pulls the car over and tries to let his body relax. Driving angry is not going to help matters – steering with paws is something that he does not want to try anytime soon.

_You know why you’re upset?_ the voice inside his head asks. _Because she’s part of your pack._

No. He tries to argue against the point. She can’t be part of the pack – she’s a _vampire_, not a wolf. Vampires are everything that werewolf packs are supposed to hate.

And yet he doesn’t hate.

And yet his team are more of a pack than any of the other werewolves he’s known have ever been. Hotch is the alpha, and Reid is the scrawny kid that everyone tries to protect. Definitely a pack instinct there, even if Morgan’s the only werewolf among them.

And you don’t leave members of the pack behind.

...

‘A war,’ Hotch says flatly. Another man might have sighed, or let his fingers run through his hair, but Aaron Hotchner keeps his expression stoic. It’s one of the things JJ likes best about him.

She shakes her head. It’s all so damn fuzzy. ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ The thing about psychic powers is that sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between what you can hear from the people around you, and the stuff that’s coming from somewhere else, and the stuff that’s just inside your head to begin with. ‘It’s just...every single thing we come across about this – about Anath’s Circle, about the vamp and ‘wolf stuff...It feels like it’s wrapped up in darkness.’ The description sounds so cliché, and yet she can find no better way to describe it.

‘So what, you think we should stay out of it?’ Rossi queries. JJ shakes her head again.

‘That’s just it,’ she says. ‘I don’t think we _can._ Whatever happens, happens.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ Rossi’s eyebrow is raised, and she doesn’t even need to read his mind to sense his doubt. ‘Short term, maybe psychic powers can predict some stuff, but on a scale this size?’

JJ gave him a look. ‘Come back and ask me once you’ve had your first vision,’ she says, because really, the feeling is not one that can be adequately described to anyone else. Unfortunately, that means that all they have to go on is her word. _Fortunately, _they’ve worked together long enough for the rest of the team to have some trust in her abilities.

She only wishes she could have the same trust.

...

Emily’s almost certain that she won’t be disturbed until morning. Her mother had been bad with personal matters seven hundred years ago, and she’s bad with them now. The elder vampire is smart enough to keep her distance until morning.

Emily makes sure that the door is shut, and she unzips her bag. The thing had cost a fortune, made from a material designed to be impenetrable from psychic forces – anything inside is undetectable, whether from magic, or from any other means of discovery.

She pulls out a dagger, running the flat of the blade across her fingertips. It glints in the light, but her image does not reflect. Emily Prentiss is a vampire, but she would rather be a ghost.

She holds the blade still, as if waiting for someone to burst into the room, pushing her to the floor. Nothing comes. She puts the dagger back in the bag, and pulls out a second object. A long, wooden stake.

The wooden burns against her skin. Without penetration, it can’t do any damage, but the possibility of it hangs over her, like a dark shadow.

The best stakes are made from the oldest trees. Magic flowing from the heart of the earth. The better the stake, the easier it is to kill a powerful vampire.

This wood is old. It took Emily a long time to find it, and she’s hoping like hell that it’s going to work.

This vampire is the oldest one of all.


	9. Chapter 9

When Morgan returns, the rest of the team are still holed up in the conference room. He can sense the tension in the air; that’s part profiler skills, part werewolf. They stare at him as he walks in.

‘What’s going on?’ Garcia demands, zipping down to land on his shoulder. ‘Where is she?’

He shares a look with JJ, who, judging by the look on her face, has already read his mind.

‘She’s exactly where we thought she was,’ he says shortly, sitting back down at the conference table.

‘Why would she be there?’ Reid asks, frowning. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘She wouldn’t tell me,’ Morgan says, trying not to let the frustration show. ‘I went there, they let me in, we talked, and then she told me to leave. She said she couldn’t tell me why she was there.’

JJ raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t contradict his version of events. He’s really got to learn how to shield his thoughts.

‘So what do we have?’ he asks, with something approaching resignation. Hotch isn’t the kind of person to say “I told you so” but he doesn’t say anything else, either.  Morgan can bet that the gears of his mind are churning.

‘We’ve been looking through any connection the victims might have,’ Rossi tells him. ‘With this many locations, we need to narrow down our locations of interest.’

‘I thought we’d decided that this was the work of Anath’s Circle,’ Morgan says, frowning. He flips open the file in front of him.

‘That’s just an assumption,’ Reid says, matter-of-factly. ‘We can’t pursue that line of investigation without further evidence as to their involvement.’

‘What are we gonna do, wait until they send us a signed invitation?’ Morgan demands. ‘Whoever is a part of this group, they’re responsible for countless crimes against humanity.’

‘It’s not our job to make moral judgments,’ Hotch says evenly. ‘If they are not directly involved in this case, then we will be infringing on the task force whose duty it is to investigate such groups.’

There’s an awkward sort of silence, which only highlights the cracks that have reverberated through the team over the past few months. Once upon a time, they might have been considered family.

Now...

Well, now they have other things to worry about.

Reluctantly, he relents.

The whiteboard is covered with photos and notes in red marker, faces and names that have next to no meaning.

Somehow, it’s all connected.

...

The best time to kill a vampire is during the day.

A good proportion of vampires – even the older ones, who could withstand the sunlight – spend their daylight hours sleeping. Emily counts herself among the few exceptions, but that has nothing to do with her age.

It’s almost dawn, and Emily has been pacing for what feels like an eternity, but in the scheme of things, it’s only a millionth of a percent of her life so far. From what she can remember, her mother usually spends the night feeding, which is both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing, because it means the matriarch vampire will be in a state of altered consciousness. Effectively high on blood. A curse, because it means she will be that much stronger should things go wrong.

Emily grips the stake tightly, ignoring the tingling sensation that shoots up her arm. There are two spell bands in the bag, which she wraps tightly around her wrist. She won’t activate them until she needs to. Between them, and the stake, it should be enough to kill her mother, and anyone that gets in the way.

Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll survive it.

In spite of the hour, the house is still brightly lit. It’s been a long time since she’s lived in an all-vampire residence, and she’s not entirely sure what to expect. Perhaps there will there be people out wandering the halls. Maybe they’ll be confined to their quarters, engaging in the kinds of things she doesn’t really want to think about.

The house is deadly silent, and maybe that should be her first clue that something is amiss, but the goal in sight has all but consumed her. As though she’s been brainwashed.

Emily creeps down the hallway, ready to activate the spell bands on her wrist. She’s not even sure if they’ll work in this place, but there the best chance she has.

The room at the end of the hallway beckons to her, its ornate door pulsing with an entirely different kind of magic. There’s a strange beauty to it that Emily can’t quite describe. She wants to loathe every part of this place with every fiber of her being.

The sound of movement pulls her from her reverie, and she activates the spell band with a single swipe of the finger. A fireball shoots from her fingertips, its blast radius far wider than Emily had expected. She drops backwards, coughing, and trying to ignore the searing pain in her arm.

There’s a pile of ash on the ground, from the enforcer that had wandered across her path. She’s not even sure which one it had been, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Now that she’s blown her cover, there isn’t much time.

Her kick doesn’t splinter the door like it should. The only thing it does is hurt like hell. Frustrated, and running out of options, Emily puts her hand to the door. She can feel that magic now. It shockwaves, and the door swings open.

The room feels so strange, and yet so familiar, as though Emily’s been here before. A memory flashes before her eyes, from so many hundreds of years ago. _There’s a young girl – she’s smiling. Her hair is in pigtails._

_She’s never seen the sunlight._

_She doesn’t know it yet, but she isn’t like all the other girls. That’s mostly because she’s never met all the other girls. The only life she knows is here, in this castle. She loves her mother, but that won’t last._

_They share the same blood, and the same dark, forbidding eyes, but they are from two different worlds._

For a brief second, she hesitates, but it doesn’t last.

Her moth—No..._Lilith_—is on the bed. Her eyes are closed, but fluttering. The curtains are drawn shut.

Emily steps forward, as softly as she can manage. Her fingers clutch the stake. She doesn’t hesitate.

She thrusts the stake down towards Lilith’s chest.

A hand shoots upwards and grabs it. Dark eyes flash open.

‘Oh, Emily,’ her mother whispers. ‘You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?’


	10. Chapter 10

Emily can't help the cry of pain as she's thrown backwards into the wall. It's made of stone, rather than plaster, and with a pitching arm like her mother's, it's enough force to break a few bones. She heals quickly, but not quickly enough to get her back in fighting shape so quickly.

One good thing about living the life that she's lived, though, is that after a while, you learn how to work through the pain. Her ribs groan as she gets to her feet, and the right arm still stings from the fireball she'd set off in the hallway. The stake is somewhere on the other side of the room now, but that's not how she's going to win this fight.

Her ability to kill her mother had been contingent on the element of surprise. Now that's gone, the best she can really hope for is momentarily stunning the matriarch vampire, and making a hurried escape.

She has one spellband left, and it might hurt Emily as much as it hurts her mother, but at the very least, it will give her a chance to run. Her hand moves to brush against the band, but before she's even made it partway, she's slammed against the wall once more, fingers closing around her throat.

'You would really seek to kill your own mother?' Her voice drips with the power of persuasion that has swayed countless vampires and humans alive. There's a reason that the Prentiss clan is so powerful, after all.

'I do what I have to do,' Emily spits, her own fingers clawing at her mother's hand, trying to pull it away. She has the vaguest idea that she is nothing more than a fly – at worst, an annoyance.

Elizabeth takes the stake in hand – if it even has the slightest effect on her, she doesn't show it. 'I could kill you right now, and it would be a _satisfaction_. Even as a child, you were nothing more than a burden.'

'I'd rather be a burden than a psychopathic _bitch_,' Emily manages to choke out. The fingers tightened again, blocking off her windpipe. Strictly speaking, she doesn't _need_ to breathe as much as a human might, but it's still an uncomfortable feeling that sends her survival instincts into overdrive. She struggles, to no avail.

Then, without warning, Elizabeth loosens her grip on Emily's neck, and grabs her hand instead. Before Emily can figure out what the hell is going on, there's burning white flash of pain.

She doesn't even realize that she's screaming until the sound hits her ears – it's the sound of sheer agony. The sound that wolves make when they're hit with silver or fire.

Legs no longer willing to support her, Emily falls to her knees, sending another shockwave of pain across her body. She's not quite sure what had happened until she looks to the side, and sees the stake protruding from her left palm. The skin around it is already blackened, the disfigurement creeping its way up her arm. If the stake stays in, it will slowly shut her body down, like some kind of flesh eating disease. Once it reaches the heart...

If the stake is pulled out...well, she's not really expecting that to happen, so it's a moot point. But then it does happen. Her mother – _Elizabeth_, she corrects herself, even in her weakened state – rips the stake out, and tosses it aside.

'Killing you would be too easy, Emmeline.' The voice is harsh, and cold. The same way it always has been. 'No.' The way her hand strokes Emily's chin is almost affectionate, but Emily knows this woman far too well to ever expect any real emotion. 'Soon enough, you'll love me the way you always should have.'

...

A dozen cups of coffee, two different kinds of pizza, a Virile Vikings takeout pack, and three cartons of Chinese later, they're still searching.

With so many victims, it's hard to find objectively clear links; the ones they do find, are tenuous at best.

'All of these victims seem to follow the same sort of pattern,' Morgan says, flipping through the next page of his file. 'Pretty powerful sorcerers that end up dead. No ties that link them to Anath's Circle, but at the same time, they're mostly fairly neutral. Nobody that a group of fundamentalist sorcerers would take objection to recruiting?'

'You think they're trying to build up an army?' Hotch asks, frowning. 'It seems a little far-fetched.'

'Hey, I'm not the one that said there was a war coming,' Morgan shoots back, finding himself more than a little pissed at Hotch. After he'd returned from the castle, the team had brought him up to speed on events. After everything that had happened, the thought of a war was not particularly surprising. 'You don't think they'd want to build up their forces?'

'I'm not suggesting that they wouldn't,' Hotch says evenly. 'But I do think that it's a bit of a stretch to go straight from "dead sorcerers" to "recruiting an army." In any case – it's not just sorcerers.'

'Who is this war supposed to be against, anyway?' Garcia asks, jumping from the top of her monitor down onto the table. 'Is it a war on fashion, because I've seen what some of those sorcerers wear...'

'Then maybe this "war" has already started,' Morgan continues. 'A bunch of dead 'wolves and vampires killed by magic? My first thought is power grab.'

'It's _all_ been a power grab so far,' Rossi comments. 'Humans frame vampires to take the blame for werewolf deaths. Sorcerers kidnapping FBI agents and then letting them go. There's something much bigger going on here, even if we don't want to admit it. I don't think anything that's happened so far has been a coincidence.' He looks towards Morgan. 'She's there to kill her mother, isn't she?'

There's an almost awkward silence.

'That doesn't make sense,' Reid says, frowning.

'Have you met her mother?' Garcia asks, hovering a few inches above the table. 'She is like...the ultimate evil. If this was a video game, she'd be the big bad boss you fight at the very end.'

'Why now, though? They've been at odds for centuries? What's changed that Emily has suddenly decided that it's the right time to do the impossible?'

Hotch gives Rossi a look. 'You think that Anath's Circle had something to do with it?'

'All I know is that their leader took her aside, wiped her memory, and then let us all go. Then suddenly she goes off with the intention of killing one of the Fallen? That's no coincidence. And we all know who headed up the _original _Anath's Circle.'

_Gwydion_

'Let's not jump to conclusions,' Hotch says, but Morgan can tell that he's starting to come around on the idea. 'But assuming that the events are connected, the consequences...'

He doesn't even need to say the words, because they all know what he's thinking. Fallen against Fallen?

That's not a war.

It's a freaking apocalypse.


	11. Chapter 11

Emily half expects that she'll be locked in the dungeon – not for the first time in this long, and twisted feud with the woman that had birthed her.

But no.

Semi-conscious, she's taken back to her room. The only thing that's changed is the fact that the door is spelled shut. Even if she'd inherited any of her father's magic, it's useless in this situation. Blood magic is a completely different ballgame. Only the person who set the spell can remove it, and that's definitely not going to be happening any time soon.

The windows, too, are spelled shut, and her bag has been taken away. There's a bed, a dresser, and a nightstand, none of them made from wood. Nothing she can use to her advantage, even if she weren't a prisoner. The stake had been her first and her last hope, and now it's gone.

The wound on her hand is still black, and still just as painful. It's no surprise – it had been made by the weapon with which she had intended to kill her mother. The mark that it leaves is not trivial.

_Soon, you'll love me the way you always should have_.

The words do not bode well for whatever Elizabeth has planned, and she _definitely_ has something planned. She hasn't kept her title as the world's most powerful vampire by being idle.

Stuck in this room, she doesn't have much opportunity for escape. Not right now, anyway.

Morgan knows where she is, and he, no doubt, will have told the team, but the last thing Emily wants is for them to try and bring the fight here. It's not just because she knows they aren't strong enough (even if that's the main reason). After seven hundred years, she has a little too much pride to let herself need rescuing.

No.

She'll get herself out of this the way she always gets out of trouble. Time, experience, and a more than a little bit of luck.

Her hand, she wraps in a makeshift sling made from torn up bedsheets. It won't help the healing process much, but it should avoid letting it get knocked around too much when things inevitably go further south than they already are now. Her right arm still has the burns from the fireball; the wounds will take much longer to heal than broken bones, especially so, considering that she hasn't fed tonight.

Fire and wood; the vampires' death knell.

Considering the circumstances, she's not sure that keeping her satiated is high on her captor's agenda. Keeping her weak might be part of the plan – to twist her mind, when it's vulnerable and uninhibited. Emily resolves to keep her mental barriers in place, no matter the cost.

It's a plan that becomes a lot harder twenty minutes later, when the door swings open. Emily stiffens at the sight of her mother. She's calm, and composed, as though they hadn't just had a fight to the near-death. That's probably one of the advantages of being two-thousand years old and nigh immortal.

'Have the bones healed yet?'

'Yes,' Emily says shortly, not bothering to mention that it had probably taken all of her energy to do so.

'Good.' Elizabeth curls her fingers, and plucks something out of the air. It's showboating at its finest, but then, she's never exactly been modest, either.

It's a goblet. Finely wrought, probably worth a lot in today's money, but it's never going to be sold to anyone. The dark red liquid that fills it is unmistakeable. Human blood. Somehow, Emily doubts that it had come from someone who had consented to the removal process.

'I'm not drinking that,' she tells Elizabeth matter-of-factly. The other woman's lips curl into a smile.

'Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.'

'Yeah, this thing I like to do. I call it "not being a crazy, homicidal monster."'

'Do you really think so little of me, Emily? I gave birth to you, after all.'

'Blood doesn't mean crap.'

'We're vampires, Emily. Blood is everything.'

The look in her eyes is...

Emily's not sure she's ever seen this look. She's seen hunger, and she's seen apathy, and she's seen cold-blooded fury, but this...

It's a strange mix of pity, pain, and sadness. As though Emily's refusal of her is a deep-cutting wound. It's a trick that Emily won't fall for. After all, it's not even twelve hours since she'd been told she was a burden (which, really, had not been much of a surprise).

'Who sent you?' her mother demands, and Emily flusters.

'What are you talking about? I came here of my own volition.'

'I can sense the magic in your mind, Emily. You might want me dead, but you aren't foolish enough to commit yourself to a task so risky. Who sent you?' Now, her words are smooth, as though coated in honey. Emily can hear the blood magic that would compel her to tell the truth, and yet she cannot resist it.

The answer, when it comes, is a surprise, even to her. It's as though a door has unlocked inside her memories. Something that she should have forgotten is wrenched from the depths of the abyss by her mother's words.

'Gwydion.'

Elizabeth laughs. 'So the old fool is still alive. And seeking to bring me down, no less. Well I shouldn't have expected anything else.' She brushes a hand across Emily's cheek. 'But you...you knew you couldn't do this. You knew you couldn't bring yourself to kill me. After all, that's why you made yourself fail.'

_What?_

_No._

_No. That's not what happened._

_ **Isn't it?** _

_ **There were far less foolhardy ways for you to have gone about this. After all these years, one of you should be dead.** _

_She's trying to break your mind, Emily. Stay strong._

'I didn't _make_ myself fail,' Emily says, bitterly. 'You're stronger than me. It's not exactly surprising.'

'Deep in your heart, you know you love me. You always have.'

Emily jerks away from the cold hand against her arm.

_ **That's all you've ever wanted, isn't it? To be loved?** _

_Don't fall for her tricks. You're better than that. You can beat this._

On any other day, with any other enemy, this would have been true. She's been building up her mental barriers for a long time, and it takes a hell of a powerful opponent to break them – when she's at her best.

Now, she's injured, she's hungry, and mother dear is blasting the mind-fuck at full power.

Wonderful.

She ought to think of something positive; a strong feeling of happiness that she can hold onto, to remind her of what she's fighting for. The pathetic thing is, though, happy moments in her life are few and far between.

On some level, she likes the team. Maybe she even trusts them. But two months out of seven hundred years isn't nearly strong enough, or significant enough to keep her grounded. Instead, she takes the opposite path. She focuses on her anger, on her hatred, which probably isn't healthy, but at the very least it will be a constant reminder of exactly why it's such a horrible idea to fall into the sway of Elizabeth's charms.

If she keeps holding on to that, then maybe she can last long enough to figure a way out of here.

Elizabeth stands, and for a moment, Emily wonders if she's going to leave, but instead, she walks towards the window. She can see the first whispering rays of light just starting to peek through.

_Fuck._

'It's morning, precious,' Elizabeth says warmly, drawing the curtains open. She ties them back with a flourish that makes Emily certain that no amount of strength will pull them closed again. 'Don't you want to see the sun rise?'


	12. Chapter 12

_A grain of sand catches on the wind, surrounded by millions upon millions of others just like it. They seem endless. Immortal, even._

_But in the end, everything dies._

_Stars fade. Black holes swallow anything that gets in their path. Galaxies recede, burning into nothingness._

_After trillions of years, there will be nothing left but the dark._

_A dark robed figure waits patiently._

_There are some he has met many times before, and there are some, he will only meet once, before he whisks them away. Sometimes, their souls return, but that is not his domain._

_For some souls in particular, he has been waiting a long time. Perhaps they will cross his paths soon. Perhaps it will be another thousand years, but in the space of eternity, even that is but a drop in the ocean._

_He will keep waiting._

_After all, there are always other souls to reap._

...

Emily's stomach churns, as she feels the sun hit her skin. As old as she is, it would take at least a few hours for the sun to fully kill her. Half of that before she loses her mind. It's a long, painful, nauseating death, but Emily knows that today, death is not its purpose.

'You really think I'm gonna just roll over, and pretend like I love you again?' she spits, laughing. 'Go to hell.'

Elizabeth smiles, and too late, Emily realizes her mistake. Saying "again" almost implies that there was actually love there in the first place. It's been so long, she's not even sure if that's true anyway. Her childhood is a swirl of memories – some fresh in her mind, some blurred by time.

The magic in the air dulls her mind, and yet she keeps clutching to that anger, that hatred. Ever so slowly, it's slipping away. Apparently after two thousand years, you get pretty good at making people do what you want. After all, there's a reason why Emily has preferred evasion over direct confrontation. She wonders why it's different now.

Maybe she's growing up.

_It had to happen sometime._

Unfortunately if this keeps going the way it's going, she won't have much longer to live anyway. If it comes down to it, well...she's not exactly all that interested in becoming one of her mother's pawns.

The door swings open, and the sweet, yet agonizing scent of blood fills the air. Emily's not entirely sure how long she can resist.

One way or another, it would all come to a head.

…

The atmosphere in the briefing room is one of morose silence. The world might be on the brink of devastation, and there's nothing they can do about it. At least, that's how it's starting to feel. They don't know the full details of how the disaster is going to unfold, but Derek Morgan doesn't need to be a psychic to know that darkness is coming. Things have been building up that way for a while, now.

'Morgan.' Hotch's voice is more than a little somber (which isn't exactly unusual), and he can sense that he won't like whatever is coming next. 'I want you and JJ to go to Babylon.'

'Hotch—'

'This isn't a negotiation, Morgan,' Hotch interrupts. 'We need to know where the werewolves stand on this issue, and for that, you need to go to Babylon.'

A pause. 'I'll need to talk to Andy about getting diplomatic passage. It might take a few hours.' Usually, he can get by without doing the paperwork. After all, he was born in Babylon, and most of his family still lives there. Going there to talk to the pack is a little more formal, though – he can't exactly just show up and demand an audience. If he was a member of a different pack, it might take days to get the paperwork through, but Andy has some pretty useful connections.

'No-one's heard from Amon in a long time,' Morgan says. 'You really think he's going to come out of the woodwork now?'

'Gwydion did.'

'Allegedly,' Morgan says, evenly. While he'd initially been somewhat accepting of the idea, the more he's heard, the more that his skepticism has decided to fight back. He still doesn't quite believe that Gwydion _has_ returned. He knows that profiling is founded on making a lot of well-informed assumptions, but sometimes, that feels like too much of a stretch. Maybe the idea of going home for the first time in five years is clouding his judgment. There might be answers in Babylon, but if he's honest with himself, he doesn't really want there to be any.

'Even if the Wolf King decides to stay in hiding, we still need to know the mindset of all the other 'wolves,' Hotch tells him. 'If they take a side, things could get a lot worse before they get better.'

'Or it could end things before they begin,' Rossi points out. 'I don't think I need to say we all know whose side the werewolves would take if it came down to it. If they get the opportunity, I don't think they'd even hesitate to take out the vampires once and for all. But we should still remember that Anath's Circle is only one faction of sorcerers. Most people don't want power, or supremacy. They just want to live their lives.'

'Not to mention the fact that the vampires haven't really made any kind of overt plays yet, All out warfare isn't exactly their style.'

'Wait, I'm confused.' Garcia lands on Morgan's shoulder, her wings buzzing. 'Now we _don't_ think bad things are going to happen?'

'I don't think we're denying that bad things are going to happen,' Hotch says evenly. 'But I still think we need to gather more information before I can recommend to the Bureau that anyone should start mobilizing their forces. Dave, is there someone you can talk to to get an idea of where the majority of sorcerers are at?'

'I'd probably have to ask a few people,' Rossi tells him. 'Different Orders have different views. We don't exactly have a single governing body like the werewolves do.'

Hotch nods. 'Garcia, I want you tracking any unusual activity that might be indicative of—'

'Shenanigans,' Garcia finishes. 'Got it.'

'Reid, you and I will be investigating the crime scenes of our most recent murders to see if there's anything that ties them to Anath's Circle.'

'I have a question that may or may not be controversial,' Garcia announces. She doesn't move from her position, but Morgan can hear her wings starting to buzz even faster. 'What about Emily?'

Hotch doesn't answer straight away, and for a brief moment, Morgan wonders if the other man even _has_ an answer.

'At this stage, we don't have any evidence to suggest that she's in danger.'

'Aside from the fact that she wants to kill the crazy, psychopathic vampire woman?'

'Garcia's right,' Morgan interjects. 'I think the fact that she's there, and the reasons she's there for are cause enough for concern.'

'But what exactly are we supposed to do about it?' JJ asks. 'No sane SWAT team would go near the place, and you saw what happened when _we_ went there. It's a suicide mission, no matter what she's done.'

Morgan hates to hear it, but he knows that JJ is right – at this stage, he has to hope that Emily has the strength of will to hold out just a little bit longer.


	13. Chapter 13

Any other case, Morgan would have insisted on taking his bike to Babylon. It's a fair ride – a little over twelve hours, if he's going top speed, and not making any stops. The problem with air travel, is that it's not particularly fun for werewolves. Or for vampires. Even Rossi occasionally gets a headache from the altitude. Since it's the best way of getting around quickly for cases, he's learned to deal.

Somehow, it's a little easier now that it's just him and JJ. Fewer people means more room, and less chance he's going to crack under the tension of the last few days. JJ's down the other end of the jet, reading a book entitled _Werewolf Etiquette_.

Laptop open, he hunkers down in a corner and video-calls Garcia.

'Hey baby girl.'

'_Hey there, honeybunch. What can I do you for?_'

'So I'm thinking...a little off the record.'

'_You know "off-the-record" is my middle name. Unless it involves another woman, in which case, my heart is torn_.'

'Well, technically, it is,' he said. 'But it's a centuries old psychopathic vampire woman who I need to know how to kill.'

'_Oh, well in that case, I've already got a bazillion sources on that. The trouble is narrowing it down to the things that are actually _true. _Somehow, I don't think that a simple stake would cut it. Unless you think you can find a super-magic stake imbued with the magic of the demons of the seven hells, or something like that. _'

'Well Hotch hit her with a regular stake last time, and it didn't do anything. What about decapitation?'

'_I get the feeling that your issue is going to be actually getting close enough to use any of these methods. And of course, this is assuming that Emily doesn't beat you to the punch._'

There's a long silence. Neither of them seem willing to bring up the dragon in the room. The fact that maybe Gwydion has purposefully sent her to her death. Because really, there's no way he could have expected her to win.

If it comes down to it – if this war is really as bad as they think it's going to be – then a full-frontal assault might be their best option.

Not that anyone wants to take that option. If it comes down to it, though, Derek wants to make sure that they have a way of taking out the matriarchal vampire for good. It might be against protocol, but things have progressed a little beyond that now.

'_Okay, here's some stuff that might be either a big load of coddlesplotch, but also possibly might not be. I'm assuming you're familiar with the history of the Fallen_?'

'The basic stuff,' Morgan tells her, offhandedly, meaning that he'd learned a bit about it at school, but only remembers the key events. 'Meteorite falls to the ground, and a tree grows in its crater. Warring factions think that the tree is some holy symbol, so they each ask for one wish to be granted. But that's just myth, isn't it?'

'_I think it's one of those things where there's a little bit of truth and a little bit of not truth,'_ Garcia says. 'But, _there are some sources that suggest a stake forged from the tree can turn even the deadliest vampires to dust._'

'So then all we have to do is find a tree that may or may not be a complete fabrication?'

'_Essentially, yes. But I'll keep digging. There might be a spell or something. Maybe our friend Mister Rossi can dig up some wizard allies that aren't so keen on vampire domination, except I kind of get the feeling that that's exactly the kind of battle we want to avoid_.'

_Wonderful_, Morgan thought to himself.

This "war" that JJ had predicted was starting to look more and more like a reality.

…

Of all the cities that JJ has ever visited, Babylon is the place that least resembles one. Most of it is low and scattered – in the downtown area, the only building that stands much over a few stories is the Tower, which exists as a tourist attraction more than anything else.

Not surprising, considering that Babylon has the highest werewolf population in the country. They don't do covens in the same way vampires do, and they definitely don't liked cramped spaces. Put it all together, and it means that the buildings are wide, and spread out. From most vantage points, you can probably see the sun set.

Uptown is a little different. The last twenty years or so has seen an upsurge in the vampire population, much to the chagrin of the local populace.It's led to a lot of street violence, and a lot of tension between the two species.

_There's a war here already,_ JJ thinks to herself. _Maybe it's the same war. Maybe it's a war that we've been fighting all our lives._

'You grew up here?' JJ asks, as they wait at the cab rank. Even though they have official clearance to be here, it's probably better that they stay under the radar as much as possible.

'Yeah,' Morgan says shortly, apparently disinclined to elaborate. They've worked together for almost five years, but really, JJ doesn't know all that much about his past. She tries to suppress the sudden influx of psychic energy he's pushing out, but fails.

_A young boy in an ill-fitting suit and tie, standing by his father's graveside._

_The same boy, not a year older, confined to a hospital bed, infected with the same disease that had plagued his father._

Her whole body jerks as she pulls away from his thoughts. If he notices that she's read them, he doesn't say anything. She makes a mental note to take her prescription to the pharmacist the first chance she gets.

She knows that the virus responsible for his condition is not passed down biologically – not in the same way it is for vampires. If a werewolf wants to have children, they have to do so with a human. It's part of the reason why werewolf/human relations are so much more amiable than vampire/human.

There are other ways for things to be passed down, though. Some families see it as a rite of passage – when the child reaches a certain age, they're old enough to join the pack. Sometimes, it just a matter of increased contact resulting in an attack. JJ's not entirely sure how exactly Morgan had been turned, and she severely doubts that he'd ever actually tell her.

They're close, but they're not _close._

The cab takes them downtown, to a hotel that is clearly designed for out-of-town werewolves. It's not far from the Wall of Kathar, which, come full moon, serves as a barrier between several thousand werewolves, and a nigh empty city. For hundreds of miles in any direction, there's an unending vista of nature – forests and rivers and mountains. A patch of enduring beauty amidst a universe of chaos. Already, that allure is in question, the darkness of the coming battle pushing in from all sides.

The beginning of the end.


	14. Chapter 14

Some wizards are assholes.

Rossi felt that his opinion has more weight than most, given that he is a wizard. And an asshole. In his case, the two are mutually exclusive, but in a lot of other circumstances, wizards become assholes because they've got more than a little bit of powerlust. They're a little like the vampires in the fact that they'll usually think they're the biggest, baddest motherfucker in the room, regardless of who else is standing by the water-cooler.

But he cultivates connections because he needs to, and yeah, because sometimes it feels nice to talk to another asshole and know you're not alone in the world. Today, he's pulling every ace from his sleeve, every favor he's ever earned. It takes someone with a hell of a lot more power than he has to gain audience with the Odyssean.

'I hope you know what you're doing, Rossi,' Clarissa growls under her breath. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought her a werewolf. Shoulder-length hair gone prematurely white, she's wearing a black leather jacket with their Order crest embroidered onto the back. Ten years his junior, she could probably fry his ass with even a weak spell.

'Hey, you've seen the signs. You as well as anyone know why we're here.' Every moment that he hadn't spent with the BAU, he'd spent with the Order. The

'If we've seen the signs, he's seen the signs.'

The Odyssean is the closest thing they've got to a leader, except even that word is a misrepresentation. In truth, he's more of a liaison, with a mix of seer thrown in for good measure. He provides guidance, but he doesn't give orders. If anyone can speak as to the mindset of the other Orders, it's him. Of course, if Rossi wants to sway their minds, he'll have to talk to them anyway, but this is a start.

Clarissa gives a slight snort, but she doesn't disagree, which is a good sign. If she'd had a problem with what he's been doing, then she'd never have accompanied him in the first place.

The Order of the Mystic, as far as Rossi is aware, is most fervently _against_ the activities of Anath's Circle. If anyone has any different beliefs, then they haven't expressed them very loudly. It won't, of course, be the same with all of the Orders. Some of them, he knows, would be quite happy to rid the world of all werewolves and vampires, leaving a complete magical domination. As much as they hate to say it, as much as the vampires can be a pain in the ass, as much as the werewolves can wipe out entire cities, the balance keeps things relatively calm. It's the balance that has always been intended.

Without it…

As much as they disdain Lilith – Elizabeth – if she dies, there's a power vacuum. Either way, it will end badly. When an outright apocalypse is a possibility, war seems like the easy option. It's a big picture thing. They all know it, even if they won't admit it.

If that makes him an asshole, well, he already knows that bit.

…

Just as they'd stepped out of the briefing room, Hotch had found himself waylaid by the Section Chief asking for updates. It's a little hard converting "vague ideas about impending doom" into an hour long meeting, but then, Hotch has been a Unit Chief long enough to know how to deal with this kind of situation.

A flash of white light zooms past his ear, taking a tight curve to hover over his shoulder. Generally, Garcia will avoid actually sitting on him. Being a fairy, she sometimes has to be a little looser with boundaries to make her presence known, but with him, she never crosses that line. 'What have you got, Garcia?'

'Well, I mostly just wanted to check that Fitzpatrick didn't try to murder you.'

He understands her concern – even though it's been a couple of months, the Strauss situation is fresh in their minds.

She leads him back to the briefing room, where she and Reid have been working on finding past cases. Garcia might be tiny, but there's no-one else in the world that he trusts more to mine and collate intelligence.

Reid is sitting at the opposite end of the table, scribbling in his notebook. Garcia lands beside him, tapping a few buttons on the mouse of her modified laptop.

'I can tell you know that tiny, fairy keyboards are _not _designed for fast-paced programming, and unfortunately, they don't exactly have a spell for database-building just yet. Not that I would trust it if they ever did. My boy Spencer was _very _helpful, but his androidy skills don't quite extend to cyberpathy.'

'Garcia…'

'Right. Sorry, Bossman.' Tiny laser-pointer in hand, Garcia flashes it towards the map that's projected on the screen opposite them. LEDs in a multitude of colors light up from coast to coast, before going dark. 'Okay, so this data has been pulled from like…a gazillion sources. Going back ten years, there are referrals we never took, murders that didn't progress to serial cases, serious assaults, mysterious and unexplained deaths…the list goes on. We have vampire against werewolf cases, sorcerers against vampire, any combination you want, we've got. Funny thing though – in the last two years, can you guess what your two resident geniuses found?'

'An increase in the average amount of cases,' Reid answers. Garcia shoots him a look.

'Spence! We agreed it was more dramatic if Hotch came to that conclusion himself.'

Reid's look turns crestfallen. 'Sorry,' he says, a little sheepishly. Hotch allows himself the briefest moment of amusement. Reid can sometimes be overcome by his eagerness to please, mixed in with a little bit of ego. More than anything, it's human emotion, which is more comforting than anything else.

'As I was saying before Boy Wonder so rudely intervened…' She gives Reid a sprinkle of dust around the shoulders to let him know she isn't exactly serious. 'While he did the statistical computations with the giant brain of his, it's not exactly my forte, so we'll just trust his expert judgement. Anyway…over the last two years, there's a significant increase in your unexplained murders. Not your unsolved murders – though there's an increase in those too – but your murders with lack of motive. Werewolf suddenly decides he doesn't like the vampire that lives in the apartment next door and eviscerates him with a meat cleaver kind of thing. Normal people, that suddenly just snap.'

'You think it's connected.'

'I think that if someone wanted to start a war, the best thing to do would be to sow the seeds early and watch them grow from afar.' Garcia's words are uncharacteristically serious – gathering and assessing intel has made her pretty good at extrapolation.

'If it's subtle enough, nobody would even realize that is was happening,' Reid muses. 'You have to know you're looking for a needle in a haystack if you want to actually find one.'

'Anyway, I will forward you my assessment as soon as I've finished typing it up. I've also pulled together the locations of all of your recent murders, grouping them based on type of scene and other characteristics. You can make it a road trip.'

The laptop gives a short beep, and Garcia hesitates. Immediately, Hotch knows that something is off.

'Garcia…?'

'If Morgan asks, I will never admit to having told you,' she says, which in itself is enough for Hotch to realize what's happening. 'I'm doing some research for him. Research into…into the best ways of killing super-old vampires.'

Hotch feels his lips thinning slightly. It's not an unexpected response, but at this stage, it's not exactly a welcome one, either. As much as he sympathizes with Morgan's situation, Prentiss had made her choice. Even if there is a little uncertainty about how much of it had actually been _her _choice. Until they have any reason to believe she's in imminent danger, there's not a lot that can be done. He sincerely doubts that Elizabeth Prentiss will be interested in taking his phone calls.

Reid seems to interpret his silence. 'We can't just not do anything,' he says, softly. Hotch doesn't disagree, but at the same time, he's faced with an impossible choice.

'Keep looking,' he tells her. 'Anything we haven't tried, _any _way of putting a stop to her, I want to know. This has gone on long enough.'


	15. Chapter 15

JJ takes a detour to the pharmacy while Morgan checks them into the hotel. Being Babylon, the entire place smells of herbs. There are a hundred different kinds of formulas purported to make the transformation process easier. According to every werewolf she's met, not a single one of them works.

The far side of the store houses the magical medicines counter – half a dozen men and women in long white coats filling crushing tree roots and distilling potions. The pharmaceutical counter is closer to the entrance, and is much less busy.

She searches through her purse, dodging empty gum wrappers, tissues, and for some reason, toothpicks, before remembering that the prescription is in her pocket. She hands the crumpled piece of paper over to the pharmacist, who examines it, as though trying to determine whether or not it's a forgery. Satisfied, he ducks into the storeroom behind him.

She rubs her ear, trying to ease the irritation of having empty earring holes. Before coming here, she'd taken out her sleepers, and swapped her silver watch for one with a canvas strap. Morgan tends not to take offence at anyone who wears silver jewelry, but a city full of werewolves is bound to be a little less forgiving.

The man returns with a small box. "Twenty-eight," he tells her, which isn't as bad as she had expected. Medicine related to magic or transformation is a little cheaper than painkillers or antibiotics. According to Rossi, it's something to do with unions. She hands over a couple of notes, and then takes the box.

The instructions on the back say "Take one with food, three times a day." It's almost lunch time now, and there are plenty of places to eat.

That, at least, is something that Babylon does not lack.

…

Hotch drives, Reid navigates. It's the same thing that happens, without fail, whenever the two of them are in the same car. Reid has plotted all of their destinations into the foldout map. Most of the team use the GPS when they drive (except for Rossi, who uses magic beacons), but Reid prefers paper. Somehow, it's actually more efficient than actually using the GPS.

When Reid takes a bathroom break, Hotch stares at the map. After a long consideration (really, it's something he's been considering for days) he adds another marker to the map.

It takes Reid approximately half a second to notice the addition when he returns, and another half to realize its significance. A few hours ago, Hotch had been unwilling to get involved, now, he's changed his mind.

'I want to talk to the leader of the Prentiss clan,' he says, evenly. Any anger or fear he might feel, he can't show. 'Several of the deaths – both vampire and otherwise – have been unsettlingly close.'

'That can't surprise you,' Reid says. It's not a question.

'It doesn't,' Hotch agrees. 'But as insistent Morgan is on getting rid of her, I'd much prefer to stay away.' He pauses. 'The situation is volatile, both politically and otherwise.'

'You can't predict what will happen if she dies,' Reid surmises. Hotch nods.

'If she's the only thing keeping Anath's Circle at bay...Well, at least she's a known quantity. We don't know what the wizards' motives are.' There's a long pause. 'It's the Director's wish that we issue an olive branch. We'll keep our distance, and she keeps hers.'

'Do you think she'll take it?'

'I think she knows that it'll just end with more bloodshed on both sides. She's two thousand years old – if she wanted a power grab, she would have taken it by now.'

'Then there's something we're missing,' Reid surmises. Hotch doesn't disagree. The job would be so much easier, he thinks, if the people that they deal with didn't have the ability to crush him into a pulp.

Easier if everyone had just been…human.

…

The motel is just out of town, and, as such, is not really a motel at all. A few dozen cabins spread out over about a square mile. Good for both werewolves who are visiting Babylon, and those interested in a more authentic werewolf experience. The living area of the cabin that they'd been assigned has a rustic look – as though it had been built a few centuries earlier. The wiring is modern, though, and it has all the latest technology. Even has an alchemy room, which is unusual.

Stylistically, it's a little kitschy (not that he pays attention to the latest trends in interior design), but there aren't a lot of options. Even considering their mission, they want to keep something of a low profile. If the vampires get wind of their presence here, then things could get very ugly.

Officially, he's here as an envoy of his pack. Andy had sent through official notice to the Babylon city Alpha, Freya. If anyone knows where Amon does, it's Freya.

Hopefully, their history won't get in the way, but Morgan knows Freya well. For a werewolf, she's professional to a T. It's the only way to keep such a big pack in line without resorting to excessive violence.

Pacing the kitchen, he grabs a can of Coke from the fridge. Really, he'd prefer a beer, but technically they're still on the clock.

'So exactly what kind of affiliation have you had with the Babylon pack?' JJ asks, curious. She's at her laptop, typing up what could be a report, but he hasn't really asked.

Morgan pauses. The team doesn't really know all that much about this part of his life – not because he wants to keep it a secret. Mostly because it's never really come up. He's not exactly in a forthcoming mood today, but she needs to know. Even if it's just part of the story.

'You know I was a cop here, right?'

'Yeah,' JJ nods. It's her job to know everyone's work history inside and out. 'It's in your file.'

'Well what my file doesn't say is that about fifteen years back, I was the Babylon Alpha.'

There's a long, almost awkward silence.

'You're kidding me.'

He gives a slight grin. 'Not even a little bit.'

'For how long.'

'Two years. Almost three.'

'It ended badly?'

He pauses, setting his half empty can down on the end of the table. 'It ended,' is the answer he gives, which isn't really an answer at all.

'What I mean is "is there bad blood?" I don't want to walk into some kind of ambush if I can avoid it.'

Another pause. 'It wasn't acrimonious. It might be a little awkward, but we won't get ourselves murdered. I've arranged to meet with Freya outside of pack territory.'

'This is why Hotch sent me along with you, isn't it?' JJ asks. Morgan gives a non-committal shrug.

'I think I'm gonna go for a run,' he says, fully aware that he's being difficult. Once he burns off some steam and has a little time to clear his head, he'll be better.

As good as he can be, at least.

…

JJ sighs to herself internally. Sometimes talking to Morgan can be like getting blood from a stone. For a guy that wears his heart on his sleeve, he can sometimes be frustratingly coy. Trust does not come easily.

It's nearing five o'clock, which technically means they're on stand-down. In their case, though, stand-down rarely ever means that they actually stand down. More often than not, they're up until the late hours, bouncing theories, and evaluating intelligence. They have a dinner meeting organized with Freya for seven o'clock – just enough time for a quick nap.

She'd picked the room that faces the east, with just enough scattering in the trees that she'll be woken by the morning sun. Now, the curtains are drawn shut – traveling for work tires all of them out, but the pills she had taken an hour earlier were probably making the problem a little worse. It seems ridiculous that it will take a few days before the main effects of the drug would kick in, and yet the side effects seem to be almost instantaneous.

Stripping down to her singlet and underwear, she crawls beneath the covers of the bed. Babylon is a hell of a lot colder than back home. Even though a wintry chill bites the air, the snow hasn't quite kicked in just yet. It'll come soon enough.

After long enough in the BAU, you get used to taking catnaps. Dognaps, in Morgan's case. Today, sleep comes more quickly than usual. It is not a restful sleep.

_She's in the woods. It's dark._

_There aren't any identifying features that make the place stand out, but somehow she knows. These woods…she's been there before. Just months ago, running through the forest. Escaping._

_Two figures stand by a clearing. They are cloaked in shadow, but she knows their forms well enough._

_Hotch and Reid._

_The only reason she would be dreaming about both of them – at the same time – well, it's not a reason she particularly likes to think about. But then, predicting horrible events has somehow become her forte._

_A third figure appears, and she feels her heart seize up. A dark haired woman whose face she can't see, but then, she doesn't need to._

_It's an enemy they all know well – Hotch, perhaps more than most._

_Wherever he and Reid are, they're in danger._


	16. Chapter 16

Hotch looks at his phone as he gets out of the car. ‘No signal,’ he tells Reid, who checks his own phone to confirm. The ‘droid has an older model Nokia, which Morgan had, for some reason, been most disappointed about when he first found out. It’s been modified heavily, and generally manages to get a signal where everyone else’s can’t.

‘Me either,’ Reid says, frowning. Usually, that means that they’re out in the middle of nowhere. “Out in the middle of nowhere,” generally means stuck in the Pilgrim Desert trying to avoid the land kraken. _That_ had been an eventful case. As far as he knows, Rossi still has the tentacle scars.

They’re in the middle of the Dunwich Forest – an earlier crime scene where a man had been ripped limb from limb by forces unknown. It’s about a couple of miles from a very distinctive residence.

Hotch draws his weapon, checking the clip. Signal disturbance could mean any number of things. Sometimes it’s an overabundance of magical energy in the air. Sometimes an evil sorcerer has decided to take out all the cell towers in the region. Once, a sentient satellite had wreaked havoc with the communications network over an extended period. It had taken months before anyone had managed to figure out what was going on.

Now, though…

Now, it feels darker. More ominous. As though they had been lured there for nefarious purpose.

Reid gives him an inquisitive look. He’s certainly intelligent, but sometimes his instinct is a little lacking sometimes. ‘Something’s off,’ Hotch tells him. It’s not until he’s finished talking that he realizes that his voice is a stage whisper. ‘Keep your guard up.’

‘Do you think it’s her?’ Reid asks, drawing his own weapon. He doesn’t need to qualify what he means by “her.” There’s only one person he could mean.

‘She might have sentries on the boundaries,’ Hotch says, frowning, but at the same time, it doesn’t quite feel like her style. She’s mysterious, and yet overt. She would want to tell them that it’s her, but in such a way that they would never be able to prove it. A sudden ambush by cronies in the middle of the forest isn’t her style. If someone’s coming to kill them, it will be Elizabeth – Lilith – herself.

‘Should we leave?’ Reid asks, staring out into the thicket of trees that lies beyond.

Hotch wants to say no – he wants to stay, and fight it out – but his priority is the safety of his team. ‘Yes,’ he says, moving back towards the car.

A strange wind  speaks in the air. It’s not a natural wind. It’s the sound of voices in the air, reaffirming the fact that getting the hell out of there is very much the right thing to do.

The car doesn’t start.

It’s not entirely unexpected, but he still tries half a dozen more times before conceding that they’re not going anywhere. If nothing else, it has confirmed what he’d known since they pulled over.

Coming here had been a big mistake.

‘Reid,’ he says, warningly. It’s best for both of them if the younger man leaves now. No need for both of them to die. If he runs, then maybe he’ll survive.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Reid says firmly.

Hotch nods. He’d known that that would been the answer. That courage, that heart – that’s nothing that can be programmed in.

He goes to the trunk, and pulls out the crossbows. Reid takes his hesitantly – Hotch knows it’s because he’s worried about his aim, not because he doesn’t want to shoot anyone. The emergency beacon is set off, but there’s no guarantee that anyone will get the call.

All that’s left to do is wait.

Wait for his death.

It’s a sobering thought, but then, he hadn’t entered this line of work for the fun of it.

The seconds tick by like hours. His body is tense.

After what seems like an age, he hears the footsteps.

Leaves crunching against the forest floor – a vampire can move without a sound, which means either it’s not a vampire, or he’s being toyed with. Aaron Hotchner has his money set on the second option.

After another age he sees the dark-haired, black-clad figure, face obscured by shadow.

Elizabeth is here, he knows, to kill him. There will be no negotiations. No escapes. It’s kill or be killed. He had come to accept that fact a long time ago – he’d only thought they might have a greater chance.

He looks back, and sees Reid’s face. A mixture of fear and horror. The confusion takes a moment to set in. He’s seen a lot of emotions cross Reid’s face, but not fear. Not like this. It’s understandable once he realizes. After all, android eyesight is much, much better than human eyesight.

He turns around, as the woman steps out of shadow. His breath catches in his throat. For the first time in a long time, pure unbridled shock hits him. A freight train to his chest.

It’s not Elizabeth.

There’s a hunger in her eyes that he’s never quite seen in a vampire. Blood red lips quiver, and fangs extend. She’s ready to kill.

Emily.


	17. Chapter 17

Her steps are slow, and measured. There’s an air of darkness to her that Hotch has never seen before. Not that he’s known her for very long, but it’s long enough for him to know that this isn’t her.

‘Emily, think about what you’re doing,’ he says, in a voice that could be described as pleading.

On some level, he had failed.

He had seen the relationship between her and her mother. He had known that someday it would come to a bloody climax. But not like this.

She’s not interested in Reid. That much becomes clear quickly, when she swats him aside like a fly. Hotch moves to help him, but she’s already grabbed him by the neck. He feels his bones break as his body slams against the tree. Ribs, arm. Maybe some spinal damage. His grip on the crossbow tightens. He doesn’t want to pull the trigger, but if it comes down to choosing…

He’s not proud of his choice, but it’s the same choice he would make every time. He’s not sure if it will do any good. With barely half a second’s hesitation, he fires. The stake catches her in the arm, and makes a hissing sound as the skin burns. She moves to pull it out, and he notices that her hand is already blackened and bloody.

‘Hotchner.’ Her voice drips with pure venom. It’s not really her voice at all. It’s the voice of an unageing monster, soaked in the blood of thousands. Whatever had gone down at the castle, Emily has fallen under her mother’s spell.

Her hands grab his shoulders, and he knows what is next. A fate that’s only fitting. He’s not sure why he hadn’t seen it coming.

When Elizabeth had attacked him, it had been a messy, bloody affair. His neck had been a mess of flesh and muscle, and some days he still feels the tingle from damaged nerve endings.

Emily’s bite is slow and precise. It’s the bite that a lover would give, only she’s the furthest thing from it. This is a taunt.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing, Emily,’ he says. For half a second, there’s a flash of recognition in her eyes, but it passes. He tries to pull away, but he knows that it’s pointless. She can hold him down with a single finger if she really wants to.

When she pulls back, she gives a slow, rich laugh.

‘Are you going to kill me now?’ he asks – not out of fear. He asks, because he just wants to know. He does not want to be surprised by his death.

‘Kill you?’ Emily asks, genuinely surprised. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Her arm wraps around his neck. Her good hand lifts to her mouth, and she bites her own wrist. ‘Aaron, haven’t you always wanted to know what things were like on the other side? You’ve always hated us, but haven’t you ever taken the time to consider that it’s you who’s in the wrong?’

‘I’m not wrong,’ he says, resolutely. ‘I don’t hate vampires. I hate people who think they can get away with breaking the law.’ He doesn’t like to use the word hate. It’s a strong word that should not be used lightly. Elizabeth has twisted her daughter’s mind – perhaps beyond repair. Blood is a very powerful thing, in more ways than one.

‘Laws made by men,’ Emily sneers. ‘Men who hated me before I was even born, by sheer virtue of where I came from. Men who decided that I should be slaughtered without having ever met me. Men who decided that their uneasiness warranted my imprisonment. And you wonder _why_ I’m uncomfortable on your team. Your worse than the ones who hunt us for sport.’

He knows that those aren’t her words, and yet he can’t say with certainty that she’s wrong. Everything is starting to go murky, and that’s not just the blood loss talking. She puts her wrist to his mouth, and he doesn’t have the strength to pull away.

She alternates between taking his blood, and feeding him her own. Already, he can feel his body starting to change.

It’s the end of his life. Of _this_ life at least. Anything that had ever made him human is trickling away.

The word _forever_ has new meaning.

…

Reid opens his eyes.

His body is broken.

He’s been injured before – many, many times, if you were to ask the rest of the team, who he’s pretty sure have a bingo game running. Every time, his body rebuilds.

_The Six Billion Dollar Man,_ Garcia has called him a couple of times, which, really, is a misnomer, because nobody’s really sure how much he had cost.

His broken hand grasps the dropped crossbow. So busy with Hotch, she hasn’t even noticed him moving.

He doesn’t want to kill her. He doesn’t know if he _can_ kill her.

Whatever this is, it isn’t her fault. It _can’t_ be. She can’t have – wouldn’t have – betrayed them.

_You don’t know that_, says the voice inside his head. It’s true. He doesn’t – but years of profiling experience makes him want to believe it.

She snarls as the first stake goes through her shoulder. The black in her eyes is deep, and dark, and soulless. Though really, he isn’t one to talk about soulless. She tears the stake from her body, and the wound heals in seconds. Now that she’s had human blood, she’s ten times – a hundred times – more powerful than she had been. The second stake, she swats away before it can even pierce the skin.

She could take on an army, and win.

She rips the crossbow from his hand, and crushes it in her grip. This is it. She’s going to kill him now.

His blood is worthless, so she’ll snap his neck. A twist and a crack, and then it’s all done.

But she doesn’t.

‘It’s over,’ she says. ‘You’ve lost.’

And then she walks away.


	18. Chapter 18

The first ambulance arrives in fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Usually, it doesn't take this long, but when there's a potential turning, any paramedics are required to be both trained, and wearing the correct protective gear.

When they jump out of the vehicle, ominous figures in bright green beekeeper suits, Reid's hands are pressed to Hotch's neck. He's sure that there's something that he's supposed to do to prevent the virus from taking hold, but his mind and his body are broken. He barely remembers his name, let alone any encyclopedic content.

The lone paramedic that looks over his injuries is perplexed. 'You're an android?' she asks, frowning. She's taken off the helmet of her suit, and her nametag reads "Sarah." Spencer stares at her, equally confused, before he remembers.

'Oh…yes.' He tries to make his voice sound as apologetic as possible. 'Sorry, I forgot.'

'You forgot,' Sarah repeats, skeptical. Reid ignores her, watching as her colleagues work on Hotch.

'He's too far gone, we're gonna have to bag him.' The words are ominous enough, but then Reid sees the bag of dark red liquid that they start to hook up to his supervisor.

'He has a DNR,' Reid says, urgently, but they ignore him.

'DNR doesn't apply to someone who's already vamped,' Sarah tells him. 'Legally speaking, the undead are still alive.'

Reid knows this. He knows he knows it. There had been a fairly well publicized case about it a few years ago, when a defense lawyer had tried to argue that murder of a vampire was not really murder, considering that the victim hadn't really been alive in the first place.

It means that Hotch is now a vampire. There's no turning back, no changing anything. From now, until the moment someone cuts off his head, or stabs him with a stake, or pushes him into the sunlight, he'll be a vampire.

Too busy trying to stop his body from falling apart, his mind can't fully comprehend the enormity of that statement. He gives a short gasp, as Sarah pulls splinters of wood from his thighs. He looks down, and realizes that there's a branch sticking out from his leg. His pain circuits down there must have shorted out. They flicker back in as she adjusts his pant leg.

'Your internal structure isn't like any android I've ever seen.'

'I was a scientific experiment,' he murmurs, before passing out. Hotch's fate will have to wait until later.

…

'Morgan!' She's yelling, not much caring for how loud she is. Her fist slams against the wood. If she wakes up the entire complex, then Morgan damn well better get up and answer the door, too.

He answers the door in a towel, with the top of his head covered in shaving cream. He'd picked the bedroom with an ensuite. On any other day, she might've laughed, but today, she can't.

'JJ, what—?'

'We have to go home.'

He stares at her, incredulous.

'JJ, we can't just go home, we have job to do.'

'Hotch and Reid are in trouble,' she tells him. 'She's going to attack them.'

He doesn't ask who "she" is, but then, he probably doesn't have to. 'Have you tried calling?'

She gives him a look. She's not an idiot.

'Nobody's picking up. Hotch, Reid, Garcia…Even Rossi's line is going straight through to voicemail.'

Morgan straightens at that. 'You think someone's screwing with us?'

'Someone's always screwing with us, Derek. They don't want us to go home, so that's what we have to do.'

He opens his mouth to argue, but before he can, JJ feels her body hit with a sudden wave of fuzziness.

_Please, not again._

She clutches at air, trying to grab hold of something; to stop herself from falling over.

The fuzziness is gone all of a sudden, and she straightens, only she isn't in the cabin anymore. She's in her office, and at her desk is…

_Well, shit._

She sits in the chair opposite. 'So is this one of those things where my subconscious tells me I'm being an idiot?'

The other JJ stares at her. Her hair is perfectly set, her skirt-suit perfectly ironed. 'I don't think you need your subconscious to tell you that now, do you?'

JJ snorts, but she concedes that her subconscious (or her brain, or whatever) isn't wrong. 'I have to go home. He needs me.'

'No,' said the other JJ, firmly. 'You need to stay in Babylon and finish what you went there to do.'

'But—'

'JJ, think of what will happen if this all comes to a head, and the werewolves and the vampires are on the same side. Do you think it'll _matter_ whether or not you were beside Hotch's bed when they told him he'd be sucking down O neg thickshakes for the rest of his life?'

'Yes!' JJ says, exasperated, before she can even process the question.

'Why?'

'Because I…Because I care about him. Because I respect him.'

'If you respected him, you'd be respecting his order to make nice with the werewolves. Hotch can take care of himself. You know that.'

She does. Her subconscious is right. Morgan is right. They won't stand a chance in this war if they don't get the werewolves on side. They'll be dead before they know it.

She blinks, and she's standing outside Morgan's room again. He's waving his hand in front of her face.

'JJ? Did you hear what I said?'

'What?'

'I said I doubt we could go back anyway. If someone's trying to screw with us, then they're sure as hell watching the airport.'

'So what do you suggest? Walk right into whatever trap they're setting for us?'

From the look on Morgan's face, she's pretty sure that's what he has in mind. From the flicker of his thoughts in her head, that's _exactly _what he has in mind.

_At least, _she thinks, _it will take her mind off everything else._

…

Rossi taps his foot against the floor, trying not to let his impatience show. They've been waiting for a while now; he's done his online banking, finished the paperback in his inside jacket pocket, and made a fair attempt at turning each stone in the wall opposite into cheese.

The top row is made entirely of Gouda when the door opposite them finally opens. Clarissa, who is a hell of a lot more impatient than he is, gives an almost relieved sigh. 'Fucking finally,' she mutters, jerking out of what Rossi knew was a pretty heavy trance. She's fantastic at psychic magic, which is completely different from regular psychic powers, and means that when she's bored, she can literally pretend she's in another world.

The woman is wearing entirely black, her long red hair cascading in curls down her back. 'He's ready for you,' she says, and they follow her down a long, dark hallway to a brightly lit room.

The Odyssean is a man named Tim Lock, but nobody ever calls him that. He's held the title of Odyssean for a little over a decade, and he knows how to use his power.

'Odyssean, we're here to—'

'I know why you're here,' he interjects. His voice has a sort of sneer to it. 'We are against a vampire or werewolf dominance,' The Odyssean says. 'That much is true. But do not mistake that as some kind of unity. The Order of the Mystic knows as well as everyone else what the future holds. Anath's Circle are not so wrong. Soon you will see a world where the vampire and the werewolf are nothing more than a minority. Enough orders agree they are powerless in the face of our strength.'

_Shit_, Rossi thinks. It's not entirely a surprise – a lot of the sorcerers he knows are narcissistic assholes – but he'd hoped for a better response.

Clarissa moves to say something (knowing her, it's nothing polite), but Rossi steps on her foot surreptitiously.

'You must know that this won't be a unanimous decision,' he says, evenly.

'I do,' he agrees. 'But soon enough people will see our side of things.'

It's not exactly a thread. Rossi knows that the Odyssean knows very well how they feel about the situation, but he's not going to kill them. That would serve little purpose but to rile up an opposition. He'll do things subtly.

Hell, maybe he already has been. Playing the long game definitely wouldn't be beyond his reach. It's something that they'll have to look into.

'If that's everything, Miss Bear, Mr. Rossi, I'll have Cecile escort you out.

And just like that, they're pushed out the door. The meeting hadn't even lasted three minutes.

'Coffee?' Clarissa asks, and Rossi frowns. He's generally used to her being a little more verbose. Then, he realizes, based on the furrowed brow, that she's thinking. When she's not being impatient, when she takes her time, and thinks things over, Clarissa is terrifying, which is why she'd been voted in as leader of the Order of the Mystic.

'What do you think?' she asks, when they're sitting in a back corner booth of CityCosmicBeans fifteen minutes later.

'Tough call,' says Rossi. 'He's popular, sure, but genocide doesn't always sell so well.'

'Depends how you sell it,' Clarissa breathes, into her Cappuccino. 'I mean, I'm all for showing the vampires and werewolves that we're better than them, but manipulating a power vacuum and murdering them? That's a step to far.'

_Murdering them._

The words have a strange sort of effect on Rossi, though he's not sure why. There's something in there…Something he should be remembering.

It's there for a flash, and then it's gone.

'I guess it's time to see where everyone else stands,' he says, and he downs the rest of his coffee in one sip.


End file.
